


Vriksha-asana

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [59]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), very light slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 17:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14836116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: strength comes from the most overlooked of places.  Story set near the end of the series.





	Vriksha-asana

**Author's Note:**

> this is a quick one off; I wanted to see if I could capture their voices. Many thanks to my lovely [](https://cat-o-wen.livejournal.com/profile)[cat_o_wen](https://cat-o-wen.livejournal.com/) for the idea. <333 The title of this piece is the Sanskrit name for tree pose; I really feel like this is something Lance would love, as it is powerful to me too.
> 
> Originally posted in October 2011, new edit June 2018.

 

The sand shifted around his feet, but with the mat and practice, he managed it. The late afternoon sun beat down on his back and (ignoring the stiffness there) Lance lifted his arms, his left leg bent against his right one, straight back, straight neck and chest, arms strong and the wind caressed him, bringing the scent of the ocean with it. He straightened even taller, hands stretched to the sky, pointed, elegant, slow and

“What are you doing?”

_whump_

Gritting his teeth, he looked up from where he’d fallen in surprise, right knee now bent at an odd angle to his other leg, which was beginning to throb. He blinked and rose, wiping the sand out of his eyes and shaking his head, dislodging it in a dusty rain from his hair (he needed a cut, but it was summer, so fuck it).  He put his hands on his slim hips, the drying surf trunks he wore sticking to him as he regarded Arthur with a slight frown. The other man had the sun to his back and was haloed by light, the red in his hair and in the scruff on his chin mahogany fire, the longish curls burning and tossing in the wind. He was shirtless and carried two towels and two bottles of Negro, one of which Lance snatched out his hand as he sighed and sat on a large rock behind him.

“Trying something one of your officers taught me,” Lance answered finally, taking a long pull from the beer. “Why?”  The water ebbed and flowed back and forth at the edge of the beach; the day was perfectly summer and Lance should be perfectly happy. He was here on a rare vacation with Arthur and they should be doing nothing – except for what they had been doing, which was snipping at each other and walking on eggshells – the beach the only escape from the strange, unwanted angry words Lance found himself spouting. He’d been a full-fledged officer himself for almost six months, in Cragen’s unit, and proud of the work he’d accomplished.

_It’s just a little something, Lance. You can help me out this once. I’m your sister, after all._

But nothing, nothing was ever enough, and he wasn’t sure – Lance closed his eyes briefly as Arthur shifted on the rock, the sound of his shorts scraping against the thing as he moved loud and yet soothing, a pattern, a rhythm that Lance found was something he needed; wanted. Soothing. Soothing and everything he needed after all the things he’d done in his life, especially the things he’d done recently. Betrayal and heartlessness the least of them.

“It looked," Arthur stopped, and twisted his mouth as Lance waited, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the sand and his fallen yoga mat.  "You looked like you were flying," he finished, shrugging.  "Like you could fly."

Lancelot jerked his head to the right and stared at Arthur’s face, which was pointed toward the water and the wet sand. The _suruss_ and hiss of it playing back and forth on the wet sand echoed in his ears as he frowned and scraped damp hair out of his face with his free hand. “What?”

“You looked as though you could have leapt up from the ground and – ” Arthur laughed and raised his drink to his mouth, his lips shiny and dotted with beer when he finished. Lance watched Arthur's mouth intently, the long fingers of his right hand flexing on his calf, the material of his shorts drying quickly. Arthur shrugged again, the sinew in his shoulders rolling smoothly. "It was beautiful."

The lines between Lance’s eyes relaxed and he smiled, a tiny curling of his expressive lips as he drank the last of his Negro. “It is like flying, sometimes.” He set his bottle down and stood up, facing Arthur where he sat on the rock. The other man’s chest was sandy and tan and had the crusty look of salt to it, natural glitter and shine dusting over Arthur’s skin. Lancelot reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Arthur’s ear (he also needed a cut) and allowed his smile to grow as Arthur’s face lit from within, a glow that spoke of everything the other man felt and perhaps could not say.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur murmured, his voice almost whipped away by the wind; it was getting stronger as the sun was setting. “I’m sorry, Lance.” He bit his lip, which was still wet from the beer he’d drunk. “I had meant this to be a fun trip.”  He swallowed heavily, and Lance, without meaning to, reached out and touched Arthur's collarbone, the place under his throat that was Lance's favorite place to rest his head or to place his lips.  He could smell Arthur from where he sat, cologne and sunscreen and sweat and he choked back the bile that rose in his throat.

_I can’t do this anymore, Gwen._

_You can, and you will_.

“Arthur, here, watch me, it’s really easy,” Lance fumbled through his words, finding a strength he didn’t know he still had even as the other man looked at him askance. Lance backed up a bit, raising his leg slowly, balancing, and then, inch by inch, arms reaching for the sky which was beginning to be dotted with early stars –  He stretched out completely and watched Arthur’s eyes, a focus point he couldn’t ever look away from as the sun set spectacularly behind the other man’s reddish brown wild hair.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, solid, not swaying, pulling strength from the earth and from the power that radiated, always radiated from Arthur. Arthur the roots of Lancelot’s tree, always, base strength and love and support for the swaying and bending (almost snapping) he’d done his entire life.  And maybe a little of his own power, power he’d forgotten he had.  He dredged it up from the tiny places he kept locked away, locked from Roland, from Guinevere, from Arthur – which broke him to realize – and even from himself.

The water’s rhythm was soft and supple as he finished the pose, lowering his leg, lowering his arms, eyes darting over Arthur’s face, feeling a bit silly and exposed. He rolled his lips inward and shuffled through the sand to the rock and sat next to Arthur again, closer this time, lips working, feeling as though he needed to say something, anything.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur said softly, green eyes (Lance could see them still, in his mind, in his gut) staring at the ocean. “I can’t do that.”

“Oh, my love,” Lance sighed, the words bubbling to the surface, tiny grains of sand dusting his fingers as he wrapped Arthur’s in his, “you already do.”

He could feel the frown of confusion marring Arthur’s face, but he merely smiled and tightening his hold, pulled Arthur to his feet and lead him to the edge of the breakers, letting the water rush over his bare toes. Strong toes, rooting him to the sand, rooting him to life – he wrapped his fingers in Arthur's more tightly, and leaned into the other man after a moment, fear eating at his head, a band of pain starting to wrap itself around his skull.  There had to be a way they could get away.  Had to be.  They could leave, just up and leave Los Angeles, and with Arthur's experience and his money, they could make a start somewhere else.  They could.  They could fly, together.

His throat was thick and he swallowed, and he kissed the hollow of Arthur's neck, the collarbone a strong bump under his lips.

“Look,” Arthur said quietly after a moment, his lips brushing over Lance's ear. “The news said something about a front. Maybe a storm.” The sky had darkened and the stars Lancelot had seen a few moments ago were hidden now by black, fat marshmallow thick clouds, and they caught sight of a streak of lightning out over the water. He allowed Arthur to tug him back to the rock where they’d left their things, Arthur gathering up the towels and beer bottles while Lance retrieved his mat from where he’d set it. He rolled it up, sand cascading off it as the wind picked up.

They watched the rain come, and ran for the house just as it reached the beach, soaking them and their towels and their hair and they laughed as they made a run for the door, their bare feet scrambling over the concrete of the long walkway over the dunes.

As Arthur slept Lance sat next to him on the edge of the bed, all the blinds drawn up and the curtains open, rain pounding down in sheets, thunder brassy as it rolled through the cloud thick sky. Heavy, sonorous, resonant, booming sounds that made him want to clap hands over his ears.

Instead he forced himself to sit straight up, eyes wide, heart hammering as the dunes and the scrubby brushes and gnarled beach trees were torn from their moorings by the storm.  He turned his head once to look at Arthur, a flash of lightning illuminating the other man, and Lance could see his skull in the white, and he squeezed his eyes shut and bit off the whimper that rose with the image.  He reached out a hand and tucked it under Arthur's shoulder, the other man turning closer to him in his sleep.

He left the yoga mat in the corner of the laundry room, rolled up, dirty, tucked away behind the dryer, hidden from view by the folded clean towels he’d washed earlier.


End file.
